CHAPTER XII_The Ghost Camp; or, the Avengers

A GOLD or silver field of decent rank and reputation must always compare

favourably in its amusements with a town. In the wide range of his

experiences, in war and peace, on land and water, British or foreign,

the roving miner may challenge comparison with all sorts and conditions

of men. Thus, he is never at a loss for a character to represent, a

costume in which to disguise, or to heighten his personal attractions.

The same rule applies to the women of the family, who have followed his

wanderings, sharing in his privations or triumphs, as the case may be.

Bearing with exemplary patience the inevitable hardships, they are none

the less eager to recoup themselves when legitimate opportunities arise

for amusement.

When Messrs. Bruce, Blount, and other magnates arrived on the scene,

they were accommodated with seats on the daïs, where they sat proudly in

full public view, reflecting how sharply contrasted was the scene before

them with any possible gathering on the site of the “Comstock Claim”—“of

four men’s ground”—little more than a year ago! The great hall, seventy

feet in length, by thirty in width, was brilliantly lighted, draped with

flags of all nations, above which, surmounting the daïs, the Union Jack

reigned supreme. Upon the satin-like Huon pine floor strolled a motley

crowd. Pirates and princes, peasants and brigands, ballerinas and

matadors, mingled with dairy maids and broom girls, flower sellers and

fishwives (whose “caller herrin’” had the smack of the well-remembered

cry), while dowagers and duchesses, grisettes, tricoteuses, shepherds

and sundowners, jostled here and there, in the dance, with a Red Indian,

a cow-boy, or even an aboriginal in his blanket.

“The distinguished visitors,” so described in the morning’s _Clarion_,

paid due respect to their municipal and other entertainers. They stood

high in the estimation of their partners, whose looks and enthusiasm for

the dance they would have been indeed hypercritical to have criticised.

Charlie Herbert and Jack Clarke, the latter having got rid of his

unfortunate lameness, were habited as a bushranger and a stock-rider,

respectively. They remained till supper was over, during which

exceedingly festive refection, Mr. Blount’s health, as a fearless

explorer, was enthusiastically toasted, while Mr. Tregonwell was

referred to as a world-renowned mining captain, and the father of the

field. Charlie Herbert was eulogised as a worthy son of the soil, who,

like Mr. Dereker—the speaker must say “Dick” Dereker (cheers)—was an

honour to his native land, and like him, destined to make a name in the

great world. Here every one rose, and cheered to the echo. The speeches

in requital of this courtesy were brief but pointed; and long before the

conclusion of the function, Messrs. Bruce and Blount quietly departed

and soon after sunrise were on the way back to Hobart, accompanied by

Charlie Herbert and Clarke, who deemed themselves to have a just claim

to exceptional recreation after their pioneer experiences. Moreover,

they explained that they could afford to enjoy themselves with a clear

conscience, while Mr. Tregonwell remained on guard—a man never known to

sleep on his post. So these young men chartered a four-in-hand drag, a

few miles out of Hobart, and having borrowed a coach-horn, entered that

city with all proper pomp and circumstance. When Charlie Herbert

proceeded to “swing his reefing leaders,” and pull up at the General

Post-Office, quite a crowd had assembled, eager to gaze on, and to

welcome the prospectors of the wondrous Comstock mine.

After depositing themselves and their belongings at the Tasmanian Club,

the junior shareholders stated with decision that, having had a fair

allowance of hard work and hard living, they were now going to enjoy

themselves; also to make some return for the hospitality they had

enjoyed in former years. As pleasant detrimentals, though suspiciously

regarded by cautious matrons, they had always, on the whole, been

popular, their want of capital being overlooked in favour of their

engaging manners and family connections. Now, as original shareholders

in the great mining property of the day, they were princes, paladins,

long-lost brothers; in fact, most desirable and distinguished.

Everybody, from the Supreme Court judges downward, called on and made

much of them. Without them no party was complete. At the polo meets they

were conspicuous; they rode splendidly, every one said, as indeed they

did, but not having been able to keep ponies in former years, this was

their first opportunity of exhibiting that accomplishment in public.

Of course, they were not long in letting people know that they wanted to

give their friends, and more particularly the ladies of Hobart, some

kind of entertainment; the question now being of what pattern and

dimensions it should consist. To this end grave consultations were held;

of balls and parties there had been nearly enough—the young people were,

strange to say, beginning to be tired of dancing.

Laura Claremont talked of going home to Hollywood soon. If not earlier,

certainly next week. Mr. Bruce was becoming impatient; he began to think

about mustering those polled Angus bullocks in the river paddocks for

the Melbourne market, when a chance remark by Mrs. Blount settled the

matter, and decided the character of the entertainment.

“How would it be to have a picnic party to the Hermitage?” she inquired,

with an air of much innocence and simplicity. “There is a lovely road by

Brown’s River, and such a view! No one is at the Bungalow now but a

caretaker. There is one fine large room, and a grand verandah looking

out to sea. The eatables, etc., could be arranged early in the day, and

if we were a little late coming home, the nights are so lovely. We can

have all the men-of-war people, and just in time, too; I heard they were

to be off to the islands soon.”

“Magnificent!” cried out Charlie Herbert and Jack Clarke in one breath.

“Mrs. Blount, you have saved our lives. Jack and I were getting quite

low-spirited and suicidal. We could think of nothing worth while. Balls

are played out. The races at Elwick were about the last excitement. A

picnic on a vast and comprehensive scale is the very thing. Miss

Maguire, when does the Admiral give the order for Nukuheva?”

Sheila blushed, and seemed taken aback, but rallying, answered, “‘The

captain bold does not confide in any foremast hand, Matilda!’ Isn’t that

in one of the Bab Ballads?”

“Oh! I thought Vernon Harcourt might have told you,” said Charlie. “You

and he seemed so confidential the other evening.”

“Suppose you ask him yourself, Mr. Herbert? But, at any rate, it won’t

be till the week after next.” Here everybody laughed, and the girl,

seeing that she had “given herself away,” looked confused.

“Tell him not to be rude, Sheila. What business is it of his? Say you

won’t go to his picnic, and then it will be a dismal failure.” Mrs.

Blount stood alongside her _protégée_ and looked threateningly at Master

Charlie, who pretended to be shocked at his _faux pas_, and went down on

one knee to Sheila to implore forgiveness.

“I’ve a great mind to box your ears, Mr. Herbert!” she said, as her face

lighted up with a smile of genuine mirth, “but I suppose I must forgive

you this time. Now, what about this picnic? that’s the real question,

and where is it to be?”

“I vote for the Hermitage,” said Imogen. “Don’t you, Hilda? I drove you

there one day with ‘Matchless.’”

“A lovely spot,” said Mrs. Bruce; “only I was afraid the mare would jump

over the cliff once. The road is lovely; I feel sure all the world will

come. We must have half-a-dozen four-in-hands—Imogen and I will be

chaperons. I suppose you young men can forage up two more?”

“Miss Claremont!” suggested Jack Clarke. “She _is_ so nice.”

“Quite agree with you,” said Imogen; “but she is not married yet.

Suppose you ask Mrs. Wendover, of the Châlet, she is so kind, and, at

the same time, capable of keeping order, which is necessary, Mr.

Herbert, isn’t it?”

“Now, don’t be severe, Mrs. Blount! All you young married women get so

dreadfully proper, and talk alarmingly about your husbands. I’ll find

security for good behaviour.”

“Only my fun,” said Imogen. “But I’m afraid you’ve hurt Sheila’s

feelings. Has she forgiven you?”

“Oh! Mrs. Blount, don’t tease him any more,” cried Sheila. “He looks

really sorry. It was all my fault, for taking his chaff seriously.”

“What do you think of Lady Wood?” said Mrs. Bruce, “from West

Australia?”

“The very one,” cried out all the council. “She has a habit of

authority, as the wife of the Premier of the Golden West Colony—(“and,

though this is a silver mine, ‘Shivoo,’ the relationship is obvious,”

this interpolation was Mr. Jack Clarke’s). Those who are in favour, hold

up your hands! Against it, nobody. The resolution is carried.”

“Now for ways and means,” said Charles Herbert. “First of all, the

four-in-hand drags—there mustn’t be fewer than half-a-dozen, with power

to add to their number; the men, too, must be able to drive. Claude

Clinton and I will see to that. Of course we make him an honorary member

of the committee of management. The affair wouldn’t be complete without

him.”

“Of course not. (Chorus) ‘For he’s etc. etc.’”

“Isn’t it rather early for a song?” queried Mrs. Bruce.

“Not at all, when two such voices as yours and Mrs. Blount’s are

available, and this is such a grand room to sing in. Music after

breakfast—when you’ve nothing to do afterwards, is simply delicious.”

“Well, only one verse—Sheila and I will join in,” said Mrs. Bruce. “If

Edward comes in, he’ll think we’re going out of our minds.”

The tribute to Mr. Clinton’s merits having been rendered with feeling,

Sheila’s fresh voice holding a good position, the council went on to

strict business.

“The drags first,” said Mr. Herbert, “the affair must be started

properly—now, who are there? There’s Gerald Branksome from W.A., _he_

can drive, I know—he won the tandem race at the Polo Gymkhana, and the

Victoria Cross race at Hurlingham last year. He can be guaranteed.

There’s Jim Allanson just down from Sydney, a well-known whip, I’ve seen

him drive to Randwick from the Union Club. The Quorn Hall drag with its

four greys will take some beating. I wired to Dick Dereker, he’ll turn

up. Jack, are you good for the brake, with that off leg of yours? It’s a

responsible position.”

“Count me in,” said that gentleman, who had been to San Francisco; “Joe

Bowman will help with the brake business.”

“That’s good enough,” said Herbert, “Joe will keep an eye on you going

down hill. I’ll have one, if I have to wire to Melbourne for a team,

that makes the half-dozen, doesn’t it? I daresay there’ll be another or

two by and by. Buggies, tandem carts, and private carriages may be left

to their own discretion, or that of their owners—there’ll be no lack of

them, I daresay.”

Once the great event was decided upon, neither difficulties nor delays

were considered worthy of notice. The date was fixed: the invitations

were sent out next morning. The social status of the entertainment being

exceptional, no one dreamed of refusing. Rumours of the scale of

magnificence upon which it was to be carried out commenced to

circulate—for one of the conditions of unparalleled advantage in such

affairs, an unrestricted bank balance, was in this case notorious.

Money being no object to these youthful Monte Christos, they were able

to indulge, therefore, all the fancies of generous dispositions, with

excited imaginations. No expense was spared; no thoughtful kindness

omitted. A large proportion of the hackney carriages and other livery

stable vehicles were secured. As at a contested election, they plied

from the General Post-Office to the Hermitage, with free transit for all

holders of invitation cards. The arrangements were complete and

successful, beyond all previous holiday experiences, and when Charlie

Herbert took the lead with an impressive team, and the belle of Hobart

on the box seat of his drag, life, it may be confidently stated, had few

richer moments, or more dazzling triumphs in store for _him_.

If he did not quote “let Fate do her worst,” there could be no doubt

that he felt, deep down in his heart, the delicious, ever new, ever

fresh sentiment of the poet.

Next in order came Edward Bruce, with Sheila on the box beside him, wild

with joy and the excitement of such a position, of which, except in a

dream fairy tale, she had never realised the possibility. Imogen, beside

her, had insisted on relinquishing the place of honour. “No, Sheila, my

dear! My fortune is told, your turn has yet to come, and you have all

our best wishes, you know.”

“You are too good, Miss Imogen, Mrs. Blount, I mean! Really I don’t know

what I am saying.”

“Well, you’re looking your best to-day, Sheila! Your dress couldn’t be

better, and this lovely day has sent all the roses to your cheeks. Why,

you might pass for a Tasmanian girl, really—and we know what that

means.”

“Now, you girls!” said Edward Bruce, in accents of veiled command, “keep

your eyes about you, going down this hill. It’s trying with a heavy

load, and I’ve heard of accidents. Imogen, put your foot on the brake

that side, and give me the least bit of help. Now, we’re on the level

again. Isn’t that view of the sea lovely?”

Reginald Vernon Harcourt, R.N., Flag Lieutenant of H.M.S. _Orlando_, was

understood to be of that opinion, as he leaned forward from his seat in

the body of the coach, immediately behind the two young women aforesaid,

and remarked as much. This was not the only statement he made before the

procession pulled up at the Sandy Bay Hotel, at the base of the hill

immediately below the Hermitage. And it did not go unnoted, that, being

favourably situated for talking to Sheila over her right shoulder, he

made prompt use of the position, as a naval strategist of experience,

while Imogen and Jack Clarke similarly situated, did not appear to be

quite so eager for conversation.

The enumeration of the drags and traps following would resemble that of

the Greek ships at the siege of Troy. It will be sufficient to say that

Mr. Dereker’s grey team was held to be the best, as to matching and

style; Dick Dereker, the most finished exponent of the coaching

science—worthy of the great annual pageant in Hyde Park. There were a

few dissentients, who thought the Quorn Hall team and drag faultless.

But the opposition votes were too powerful. He was “Dick Dereker,”

therefore unapproachable in love, war, sport, and every other form of

manly excellence. There was nothing more to be said. His name settled

the matter.

As it happened, nothing could possibly have been more deliciously

perfect than the weather. Warm, without oppressive heat or sultry

feeling, the faint sea breeze, the murmuring lazy surge-roll, completed

the magic spell, which invited to sensuous enjoyment, the happy

possessors of unworn youth—in which class, the greater proportion of the

guests were fortunately included.

The day, the season, the environment and attendant circumstances being

propitious, so was the gathering, which was beyond all precedent

successful. All the four-in-hands had turned up; there was such a crowd

at the General Post-Office, that traffic was temporarily impeded. But

that did not matter in Hobart, as it certainly would have done in

Melbourne or Sydney—where indignation would have been aroused. The

Tasmanian population is kindly and forbearing, especially to the

stranger within their gates, through whom, in the season, it must be

admitted, their revenues are substantially benefited. So, as the

four-in-hands passed in single file down Davey Street, cheers rent the

air, and hearty popular enthusiasm was evoked. The hill below the

Hermitage was long and steep, so it was arranged that the drags and

carriages were to be left at the hotel, where adequate accommodation had

been provided, as well for the horses, as for the grooms and drivers to

them appertaining. The walk up hill was neither long nor unduly

fatiguing; providing also for reasonable deviations into the forest

paths, whence more extended views might be enjoyed, or confidential

communications exchanged. This arrangement seemed to suit the majority

of the guests, who might, without loss of time, have been seen scattered

over the sides and summit of the forest hill. At the sound of the great

Chinese gong, a fragment of loot from the Summer Palace at Pekin, in the

half-forgotten Chinese war, a strong converging force prepared to invest

the Hermitage. Here were seen tables on trestles in the principal room,

laden with all the good things which a very active, well-paid caterer

had been able to collect. Haunches of venison, barons of beef, saddles

of mutton, turkeys of great size and amplitude, wild fowl of all

descriptions, lake trout, fresh salmon (frozen), grouse and pheasant,

from the same miraculous arrangement, rendered the choice of viands

difficult, and the taste of the most fastidious “gourmet,” easy to

satisfy. With the popping of the first champagne corks, the conversation

began to strike the note of cheerfulness proper to the occasion, after

which the “crescendo” was maintained at an uninterruptedly joyous, even

vivacious level.

Speeches were sternly deprecated; an immediate adjournment to the beach

was proposed and promptly carried out. The shining sands invited to

every kind of game and dance suitable to an open air revel. Sets of

lancers were formed; games such as “twos and threes,” “oranges and

lemons,” “hide and seek,” found enthusiastic supporters, while those

pairs who had anything particular to say to each other found quiet paths

and shady nooks in the forest fringe, which lay so conveniently close to

the beaches and headlands.

There was, apparently, no lack of mutual entertainment, or necessity for

the givers of the feast to invent fresh frolics, for, just as the low

sun gave warning, and the last game of “rounders” came to an end—in

which, by the way, Sheila, who was as active as a mountain colt, had

particularly distinguished herself—the recall bugle was sounded. A late

afternoon tea was served, and a descent made to the lower level, where

the drags, carriages, buggies and dog-carts stood, with horses harnessed

up, ready to start. Among these last-mentioned vehicles was one, a

dog-cart, which was originally intended to accommodate more than one

pair. The driver regretted his inability to take up a third person for

want of room. It subsequently came out that, being a youth of foresight,

he had removed the back seat before leaving Hobart, holding the ancient

averment, “two’s company, three’s none,” still to be in force and

acceptation. However, after the inevitable amount of bustle and

occasional contention of ostlers, all the teams were duly mustered and

loaded up in the same order as before.

There were, of course, certain reconstructions, among which it was noted

that Mrs. Blount had relinquished her seat next to Miss Maguire, in

favour of the Flag-Lieutenant of the _Orlando_, alleging preference for

the higher seat behind, as by this removal she commanded a more

extensive view of the glorious landscape, spread out by sea and shore,

below and around. Sheila and Lieutenant Harcourt did not appear to be so

deeply interested in scenery—at least, on this occasion—as they kept

their heads down mostly, and spoke, though uninterruptedly, in rather a

low tone during the homeward drive.

On one occasion, however, they looked up suddenly as a fresh young voice

commenced the opening verse of a well-known song, and before the magical

couplet of “The ship is trim and ready, and the jolly days are done,”

was well over, the whole of the occupants of the drag, as well as those

of the one immediately behind, joined in with tremendous enthusiasm,

until, when the comprehensive statement that “They all love Jack” was

reached, the very sea-gulls on the beach were startled, and flapped away

with faint cries of remonstrance. Then, for one moment, the

Flag-Lieutenant and Sheila looked into one another’s eyes, and read

there something not wholly subversive of the sentiment.

The moon had risen, illumining the broad estuary, over which, in

shimmering gleams, lustrous lines of fairy pathways stretched to the

silvery mist of the horizon; star-fretted patches of lambent flame

traversed the wavelets, which ever and anon raised a glittering spray

upward, while from time to time the low but distinct rhythmic roll of

the surges fell on the ear. Higher and higher rose the moon in the dark

blue, cloudless sky—the surroundings were distinctly favourable to those

avowals which the moon has, from time immemorial, had under her

immediate favour and protection. If some of the merry maidens of the

day’s _festa_ listened to vows more ardent than are born of the prosaic

duties of every-day life, what wonder? Next morning there was great

excitement at the clubs, and among all the inner circles of Hobart

society. Two engagements were “given out,” one being that of Lieutenant

Vernon Harcourt, of the _Orlando_, to Miss Sheila Maguire, of Tumut

Park, New South Wales, and the other of Mr. Charles Herbert, and a young

lady to whom he had long been attached, though circumstances had

hitherto delayed his declaration. Suspicions had been aroused as to Mr.

Jack Clarke and another fair maid, but nothing was as yet “known for a

fact.” Of course, little was done on the day following this stupendous

entertainment. Everybody was too tired, or declared themselves to be so.

The members of the Polo Club got up a scratch match, however, just to

“shake off the effects of a late sitting at whist.”

A few ladies rode out to this affair, the ground being situated

picturesquely on the bank of the broad Derwent. Among these Dianas was

Sheila, riding a handsome thoroughbred, and escorted by Mr. Bruce, also

exceptionally well mounted. Mr. Harcourt was observed to join them from

time to time, when his “quarter” was up at polo. He was the show player

of the fleet; always in a foremost position at the gymkhana. In this

particular match, Sheila was observed to take great interest, turning

pale, indeed, on one occasion when he was knocked off his horse in a

violent passage at arms.

His opponent was adjudged to have been in the wrong, and well scolded by

the captain of his side; the game went on, and Sheila recovered her

roses—her spirits also, sufficiently to join in the cheering when

Lieutenant Harcourt’s side won the match by a goal and two behinds.

Both of the engagements met with general approbation. The Tasmanian

young lady and her lover belonged to (so to speak) “county” families,

known from childhood to all the squirearchy of the island—always general

favourites. So everybody congratulated sincerely and wished them luck.

The over-sea couple were, of course, strangers, and under other

circumstances, local jealousy might have been aroused by a girl from

another colony carrying off a handsome naval officer, always a prize in

colonial cities. But Sheila’s simple, kindly, unaffected manner had

commended her to even the severe critics of her own sex, the more

sensible members excusing his invidious preference among so many

good-looking, well-turned-out damsels, something after this fashion:

“You see, he’s only a lieutenant; it may be years before he gets a ship.

He couldn’t afford to marry yet, without money. They say she has tons of

it, and she is certainly very good-looking, and nice in her manner. So

Mr. Harcourt hasn’t done himself so badly.” One person was slightly

dissatisfied. That was his captain. “He is my sailing-master, and a very

good one, too,” he said, in an ill-used tone of voice. “He’ll always be

thinking of her now, and counting the days till he can leave the

service. Suppose the ship runs on a rock, I get my promotion stopped,

and all because of this confounded girl.” Different point of view!

As for Sheila and her lieutenant, they were perfectly, genuinely,

unmistakably happy. They were both young, she just twenty, he not quite

arrived at thirty. He was a rising man in his profession, and Sheila’s

money, which was, very properly, to be settled upon herself, would allow

them to live most comfortably while he was on shore; besides aiding—as

money always does, directly or indirectly—in his promotion. So the

immediate prospect was bright. Sheila declared that she had always loved

sailors since that eventful ball, where she had joined in the dance on

equal terms with the nobility of Britain. What a fortunate girl she was,

to have such friends; and how much more fortunate she had become since!

This memorable picnic, often referred to in after years, was considered

to be virtually, if not officially declared, the closing event of the

season. The fleet was to sail in a week or ten days for “the islands,” a

comprehensive term for a general look round the lands and seas of the

South Pacific, in the interests of British subjects. They would be back

in Sydney in three or four months, at the end of which time—a

terrifically long and wearisome period Sheila thought—she and her sailor

were to be married. The Admiral’s ship and officers would then return to

England, after a month’s stay in Hobart and Sydney—the time of his

commission having expired—and another Admiral, with another

flag-lieutenant, would replace them. Sheila would also go to England,

but not in the _Orlando_, modern regulations having put a stop to that

pleasing privilege. But she could take passage in a P. and O. steamer,

leaving about the same time, and be in England ready to receive him in a

pretty house of their own—their very own—where they would be as happy as

princes—happier indeed than some! After the departure of the fleet, a

certain calmness—not exactly a dullness, but bordering on something of

that nature—began to settle upon the Isle of Rest and Recreation. The

Queenslanders, the New South Wales division, the Victorians, South

Australians, and New Zealanders were taking their passages. Edward Bruce

began to get more and more fidgety—he was certain that he was wanted at

the station; really, if his wife and Imogen could not make up their

minds to leave, he must go home and leave them to follow.

Matters were in this unsettled state, when suddenly in the cable column

appeared the startling announcement, “The Earl of Fontenaye died

suddenly yesterday, at Lutterworth, soon after hearing the news of his

eldest son’s death at Malta from an accident at polo. The title and

estates devolve upon the younger son, the Honourable Robert Valentine

Blount, at present in Australia.”

This news, it may well be imagined, was received with mingled feelings

by the people most nearly concerned. The Earl had been in failing health

for years past; but as a confirmed invalid, had not aroused apprehension

of a sudden termination to his succession of ailments. Blount and his

father had been on excellent terms; their only serious disagreement had

been on the subject of the younger son’s unreasonable wandering—as the

old man termed it—to far countries and among strange people. He had not

gone the length of prohibition, however, and his last letter had assured

the errant cadet of his father’s satisfaction at his marriage, and of

his anxiety to welcome the bride to the home of their race. Now all this

was over. Blount would never behold the kind face lighting up with the

joy of recognition, or have the pride of presenting Imogen in all her

grace and beauty to the head of his ancient house. His brother Falkland

too, who used to laugh at his pilgrimages, as he called them, and ask to

be shown his staff and scrip, with the last news of the Unholy Land, as

he persisted in naming Australia. What good chums they were, and had

always been! His brother had never married; in that respect only

withstanding his father’s admonitions, but promising an early

compliance. Now, of course, in default of a baby heir Blount was Lord

Fontenaye, the inheritor of one of the oldest historic titles and

estates of the realm—a position to which he had never dreamed of

succeeding; the thought of which, if it had ever crossed his mind, was

dismissed as equivalent in probability to the proverbial “Château en

Espagne.” Perhaps his most powerful consolation, independently of the

change involved in becoming an English nobleman, with historical titles

and a seat in the House of Lords, was the contemplation of Imogen as

Lady Fontenaye.

To her, the feeling at first was painful rather than otherwise. She

sympathised too deeply in all her husband’s mental conditions, not to

share his grief for the sudden loss of a father and brother to whom he

had been warmly attached. He would never be able to tell that father

_now_ how deeply he regretted the careless disregard of his feelings and

opinions. Nor could he share with his brother, in the old home, those

sports to which both had been so attached since boyhood’s day. The pride

of proving that in a far land, and among men of his own blood, he had

been able to carve out a fortune for himself, and to acquire an income,

far from inconsiderable even in that land of great fortunes: even this

satisfaction was now denied him. Imogen too, dreading always an

inevitable separation from her sister, felt now that their absences must

necessarily be greater, more lengthened, until at last a correspondence

by letter at intervals would be all that was left to them of the happy

old days in which they had so delighted.

Why could not Fate indeed have left them where they were, provided with

a good Australian fortune, which they could have spent, and enjoyed

among their own people, where Valentine would have, in time, become an

Australian country gentleman, bought a place on the Upper Sturt, and

lived like a king, going of course to Hobart in the summer, and running

down to Melbourne now and then? Why indeed should they have this

greatness thrust upon them?

So when Imogen was called upon by various friends, ostensibly to

inquire, but really to see “how she took it,” and whether she showed any

foreshadowing of the dignities, and calmness of exalted rank, they were

surprised to see from red eyes, and other signs, that the young woman

upon whom all these choice gifts had been showered had evidently been

having what is known in feminine circles, as “a good cry,” and was far

from being uplifted by the rank and fame to which she had been promoted.

This state of matters was considered to be so unwise, unnatural, and in

a sense ungrateful, to the Giver of all good gifts, that they set

themselves to rate her for the improper state of depression into which

she had allowed herself to fall. She was enjoined to think of her duty

to society, her rank, her position among the aristocracy of the proudest

nobility in the world. Of course it was natural for her husband to be

grieved at the death of his father and his brother. But time would

soften that sorrow, and as she had never seen them, it would not be

expected of her to go into deep mourning or to wear it very long. In the

face of these, and other practical considerations, Imogen felt that

there would be a flavour of affectation in the appearance of settled

grief, and allowed her friends to think that they had succeeded in

clearing away shadows. But she confided to Mrs. Bruce, in the confidence

of the retiring hour, that Val and she would always look back to their

quiet days at Marondah, and their holiday, lotus-eating season in

Hobart, as part of the _real_ luxuries and enjoyments of their past

life.

“However, you will have to come and see me at Fontenaye!—how strangely

it sounds—with Edward and the dear children, and we must get Mr.

Tregonwell to make something happen to the Tasmanian Comstock, so that

_we_ will come out like a shot. But, oh! my dear old Australia! how I

shall grieve at parting with you for ever!”

Then the sisters kissed, and wept in each other’s arms, and were

comforted—so women are soothed in time of trial. On the next morning

Imogen appeared at breakfast with an unruffled countenance, talking

soberly to her husband and brother-in-law about the wonderful change in

their future lives, and their departure by the next mail steamer.

This, of course, was imperative. The situation became urgent. Mr. Bruce

agreed to remain until the P. and O. _Rome_, R.M.S. came for her load of

so many thousand cases of Tasmanian apples, and with incidental

passengers steamed away for Albany, Colombo, Aden, Cairo, and the

East—that gorgeous, shadowy name of wonder and romance. Then would the

Australian family return to their quiet home by the rippling, winding

waters of the Sturt, and the English division return to become an

integral portion of the rank and fashion, the “might, majesty and

dominion” of the world-wide Empire which has stood so many assaults, and

which still unfurls to every wind of Heaven the “flag that’s braved a

thousand years, the battle and the breeze.”

* * * * *

It came to pass during one of the necessary conversations relative to

the voyage, that Lord Fontenaye said to her ladyship, “Does anything

occur to you, relative to Sheila Maguire, my dear Imogen?”

“Indeed, I have been thinking about her a great deal, lately,” said the

youthful countess. “She can’t be married until Lieutenant Harcourt and

the fleet return from the Islands. Till then, she will have to stay in

Hobart.”

“Won’t that be a little awkward for her? She has no friends, that is to

say, intimate friends, over here—though, of course, we could get her

efficient chaperonage—eh?”

“I know what you are thinking of, Val! It would be the very thing—and

oh! how kind of you.”

“What am I thinking of, and why am I so kind—have I married a thought

reader, my dear Imogen?”

“Why, of course, you are intending to ask her to go home with us, and to

be married from Fontenaye. It is a splendid idea. It would be

unspeakably nice for her, and she would be such a help and comfort to

me, on our travels.”

“The very thing! Do you think she will like the idea?”

“Like it? She will be charmed. He will come to England with the men of

the _Orlando_, who are to be replaced, and they can be married as soon

as she can get her trousseau together. We shall go to England much about

the same time as the Admiral, so that Mr. Harcourt will be on full pay

the whole time. I dare say it will be two or three months before he gets

another ship. Poor dear Sheila, she never dreamed of being married from

a castle, any more than I did of living in one after I was married.”

“Or that I should give her away, as I suppose I shall have to do,”

rejoined her husband. “‘Giving agreeable girls away,’” he hummed—“I

shall feel like the Lord Chancellor in _Iolanthe_.”

When this deep-laid plot was unfolded to Sheila, she entered into the

spirit of it with enthusiasm, expressing the deepest gratitude, as with

tears in her eyes, she thanked her tried friends for their thoughtful

kindness. “I _was_ rather down about being left alone here,” she

confessed. “It was all very well when I belonged to your party, but

being here by myself till the fleet returned, and fancying all sorts of

things in Mr. Harcourt’s absence, was different.”

“The advantage is not altogether on your side, Sheila. You will be

company for me when my husband is away. We’re both Australians, you see,

and there are many things in common between us; old bush memories and

adventures, that an English friend, however nice she was, wouldn’t

understand. Really I feel quite cheered up, now I know you’re coming

with us.”

“And what do _I_ feel?” cried Sheila—“but I won’t describe it.” Her

colour deepened, and her dark grey eyes glowed, as she stood up and

looked at her benefactress with passionate emotion in every line of her

expressive face. “Yes! I feel that I could die for you”—she clasped

Imogen’s hand as she spoke, and kissing it again and again, rushed from

the room.

“Her Irish blood came out there,” said Blount; “how handsome the girl

has grown, and what a figure she has! She’ll rather astonish our

untravelled friends in England. You’re quite right, though, as to her

being a comfort to you in foreign parts, and you can talk about the

Upper Sturt, and dear old Marondah together, when you feel

low-spirited.”

“Dear Marondah!” said Imogen, softly; “I wonder when we shall see the

old river again, and the willows, dipping their branches into its clear

waters.”

“Oh! you mustn’t let yourself run down, that way. Bruce will be home

next summer, if bullocks keep up and the price of wool. Think how

they’ll enjoy coming to stay with us, and what shooting and hunting he

and I can have together. Sheila can hunt too. I’ll smoke a cigar in the

garden, and you’d better go to bed, my dear.”

* * * * *

But little more remains to be told concerning the fortunes of Imogen and

her husband, now Lord and Lady Fontenaye. They decided on a month’s

sojourn in Cairo, where they revelled in the mild climate, and the daily

marvels and miraculous sights and sounds—the enchanted Arabian Nights’

surroundings, the veiled women, the Arab horses, the balconies, almost

touching across the narrow streets. The old-world presentment of the

East was inexpressibly fascinating to Imogen and Sheila, seen for the

first time.

They “did” Egypt more or less thoroughly, as they planned not to reach

England before April—Imogen declaring that “the cold winds of March”

would lay her in an early grave. So they went up the Nile as far as

Philæ, filling their minds with such glories and marvels as might

suffice for the mental digestion of a lifetime. They rode and explored

to their hearts’ content, “Royal Thebes, Egyptian treasure-house of

boundless wealth, that boasts her hundred gates”; Luxor, with its

labyrinth of courts, and superb colonnades; Karnak, that darkens the

horizon with a world of portals, pyramids, and palaces.

“Perhaps we may never see these wonders again,” said Imogen. “But I

shall revel in their memories as long as I live. What do you say,

Sheila?”

“I feel as if I was just born,” said the excited damsel, “and was just

opening my eyes on a new world. Awakening in Heaven, if it’s not wrong

to say so, must be something like this.”

“What a charming way of getting over the winter,” said Imogen. “One sees

so much of the world in the process, besides meeting people of mark and

distinction. Val tells me we may have a fortnight in Paris, for hats and

dresses, before arriving in dear old England some time in April, which

is a lovely month, if the spring is early. And this year they say it

is.”

“‘Oh! to be in England, now that April’s here’,” quoted Lord Fontenaye,

who now joined the party; “we shall be comfortably settled in Fontenaye,

I hope, before the ‘merry month of May,’ when I shall have the honour of

showing you two ‘Cornstalks’ what a London season is like.”

“Oh! and shall we able to ride in the Park?” quoth Sheila, with great

eagerness. “I do so long to see the wonderful English horses that one

hears so much about—the Four-in-hand and Coaching Clubs too! What a

sight it must be! I must have a horse worth looking at, price no

object—new saddle, and habit too. Oh! what fun it will be! And you’ll

give Mrs. Bl—I mean, her ladyship—a horse too, won’t you?”

“You’re a true Australian, Sheila,” said he. “I believe you all care

more about horses, than anything else in the world. Now that the

‘Comstock’ is so encouraging in the way of dividends, I believe it will

run to a hundred-and-fifty-guinea hackney or two—with a new landau, a

brougham, and other suitable equipages.”

These rose-coloured anticipations were duly realised. A wire was sent

from Paris, and the “wandering heir” was duly received and welcomed in

the halls of his ancestors. The time-honoured feasting of tenants and

“fêting” of the whole countryside was transacted—a comprehensive

programme having been arranged by the land steward, a man of great

experience and organising faculty. The younger son of the house, it was

explained, had always been the more popular one. And now that he had

“come to his own,” as the people said, their joy was unbounded.

Everything was done on a most liberal scale. Correspondents came down

“special” from the great London dailies, by whom full and particular

descriptions were sent through all Britain and her colonies, as well as

to the ends of the earth generally.

The beauty and gracious demeanour of Lady Fontenaye, and her friend Miss

Sheila Maguire, an Australian heiress of fabulous wealth, were descanted

upon and set forth in glowing colours. Archives were ransacked for the

ancestors of all the Marmions, from the days of Flodden and those

earlier times when Robert de Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye in Normandy,

followed the Conqueror to England, and after Hastings obtained a grant

of the castle and town of Tamworth, and also the manor of Scrivelbaye,

in Lincolnshire. Harry Blount, Marmion’s attendant squire, was,

according to the custom of the day, a cadet of the house, and being

knighted with FitzEustace for gallantry at Flodden, attained to wealth

and distinction; eventually through marriage with one of the

co-heiresses of the house of Marmion, extinct in default of male heirs,

became possessed of the title and estates. Hence, Robert Valentine

Blount, the present Lord Fontenaye, has duly succeeded to the ancient

tower and town, amid appropriate festivities and rejoicings. We are not

aware that his Lordship presented a gold “chain of twelve mark weight”

to the pursuivants, or the gentlemen of the press, but that the

hospitality was thoughtful, delicate, and unbounded in liberality, no

one honoured by its exercise will deny; while the beauty and gracious

demeanour of the Lady of the Castle, so efficiently supported in her

duties by her friend, the handsome Australian heiress, Miss Maguire of

Tumut Park, lent additional lustre to the entertainment.

There for a while we may leave them, in the enjoyment of youth, health,

and historic rank. If such gifts do not confer unclouded happiness, it

must be admitted that but few of the elements of which it is supposed to

be compounded were wanting.

Some delay in Sheila’s marriage, however, took place. The _Orlando_,

after having been ordered to China, to the dismay of the captain, and at

least two of the senior officers, who had private reasons for not

desiring to explore the Flowery Land, either in peace or war, was as

suddenly recalled, and the cruiser _Candace_ ordered to take her place.

The _Orlando_ was paid off, and the _Royal Alfred_, with a new crew and

officers put into commission, and despatched to the Australian station

at short notice. A telegram from Fontenaye caused Commander Harcourt,

R.N., to betake himself to that vicinity at once. He had been promoted

to the rank of Commander for a dashing exploit in bringing off a boat’s

crew at Guadalcanar, in the teeth of tremendous odds, and a shower of

poisoned arrows. There was no need for delay now—Sheila had her

trousseau ready weeks before, and the Lieutenant—I beg his pardon, the

Captain—didn’t require much time to make _his_ preparations.

So there was another entertainment at Fontenaye, of comparative

splendour and more true kindness and genuine friendship. All the

neighbouring gentry were bidden to the feast, as well as the brother

officers of the bridegroom. Lord Fontenaye gave away the bride, and made

a feeling speech at the breakfast. When Commander Harcourt, R.N., and

his lovely bride—for Sheila, in a “confection” from Paris, looked

beautiful exceedingly—walked down the aisle of the old Abbey church, a

girl of the period said “it put her in mind of Lord Marmion and Lady

Clare, only that Marmion was a soldier, and not a sailor, and (now that

she remembered) he turned out badly, didn’t marry Clare after all, was

killed, indeed, at Flodden, and ought to have married poor Clare, who

did not do so badly, nor Lord Wilton either, after recovering his lands,

his lady-love, and his position in society.”

After this momentous function, Lord Fontenaye one fine morning looked up

from the _Times_, which, after the fashion of secure husbands, he read

during breakfast, with a sudden exclamation that caused Imogen to

inquire what it was about.

“The death of Mrs. Delamere, poor thing! _That_ will make a difference.”

“Difference to whom?” inquired Imogen. “Oh! I see—now, those two can get

married. Have you heard from them since they went to West Australia?

Yes, I know, you showed me her letter.”

“I heard _of_ them later on, from a man I knew, that the Colonel had

bought into the ‘Golden Hoof,’ or some such name, and was likely to make

a big rise out of it, as he expressed it. What a turn of the wheel it

would be, wouldn’t it? He was ‘dry-blowing’ after they got to West

Australia.”

“What in the world’s that?”

“A primitive way of extracting gold from auriferous earth, partly by

sifting it, and then by blowing away the lighter dust particles, when

the gold, if there is any, remains behind. Then, their tent caught fire

one day, when she was away for an hour marketing (fancy Adeline buying

soap and candles at a digging!), and everything they had in the world

was burned, except what ‘they stood up in,’ as my informant phrased it.”

“But you will send them something, poor things! How I pity them. Oh! how

stupid I am! You _did_—I know you.”

“Yes! and she sent it back—a decent cheque too.”

“Quite right—they couldn’t take it from you—_you_ of all men. What did

you do then?”

“I ‘worked it,’ as ‘Tumbarumba Dick’ would say. He was one of the

partners in the Lady Julia claim. I sent Dick the cheque; told him to

get the diggers round about to form a relief committee, and to let them

subscribe their share, then spread mine out in small amounts among the

genuine ones. They couldn’t refuse the honest miners’ and their wives’

assistance. No people are so generous in cases of accident or distress.

Thus my money ‘got there just the same,’ and helped to give the forlorn

ones a fresh start.”

“Quite another romance—I suppose you have a slight _tendresse_ in that

direction still?”

“Not more than a man always has for a woman he has once loved, however

badly she treated him; and that is a very mild, strictly rational

sentiment; but _you_ ought to have.”

“Why, I should like to know?”

“Because, of course, when she broke my heart, and sent me out into the

world drifting purposeless, I fell across one Imogen Carrisforth, who

towed the derelict into port—made prize of him, indeed, for ever and

ever.”

“Well, I suppose she did shape our destiny, as you say—without the least

intending it; and now I suspect she’ll shape the Colonel’s for good and

all. They will be remarried quietly, live in the south of France, and

the gay world will hear no more of them.”

* * * * *

Fontenaye was always reasonably gay and truly hospitable; to the

Australian division notably. Not unduly splendid, but comfortably and

reasonably fine, on occasion. The nearest pack of hounds always met

there on the first day of the season, when sometimes Lady Fontenaye,

sometimes Mrs. Vernon Harcourt, appeared, superbly mounted and among the

front rankers, after the throw off. Sheila was a frequent guest in her

husband’s necessary absences at sea. Imogen was a little slow to

accustom herself to be addressed and referred to as “your ladyship” and

“her ladyship” at every turn, but took to it by degrees.

“Now, what became of Kate Lawless and her brother Dick?” asks an eager

youthful patron of this veracious romance (not by any means wholly

untrue, dear reader, though a little mixed up).

“And the roan pony mare ‘Wallaby’ that carried Kate ninety miles in a

day to warn the police about Trevenna,” screams a still younger student.

“You mustn’t leave _her_ out.”

As might be expected, my dear boys, they came to a sad end. Dick and his

sister disappeared after the fight at “the Ghost Camp.” They were

rumoured to have been seen on the Georgina River, in the Gulf country.

There were warrants out for both, yet they had not been arrested. But

one day, word came to the police station at Monaro, that near a grave,

at a deserted hut between Omeo and the Running Creek, something was

wrong. The Sergeant, taking one trooper who drove a light waggonette,

rode to the spot. “This is where Mrs. Trevenna’s child was buried, the

little chap that was drowned,” said the trooper, “under that swamp oak.

I was stationed here then and went over. She _was_ wild, poor thing! I

wonder if that’s her lying across the grave.”

It was even so. A haggard woman, poorly dressed, showing signs of

privation and far travel, lay face downward on the little mound. “Lift

her up, Jackson!” said the Sergeant; “poor thing! I’d hardly have known

her. She came _here_ to shoot herself, look about for the revolver. Just

on the temple, what a small hole it made! Shot the mare too! best thing

for both of ’em, I expect. So that’s the end of Kate Lawless! Who’d have

thought it, when that flash crowd was at Ballarat! Handsome girl she was

then, full of life and spirits too!”

“She never did no good after the boy was drowned,” said the trooper.

“No! nor before, either. But it wasn’t all _her_ fault. Let’s lift her

into the trap. She don’t weigh much. There’ll be the inquest, and she’ll

have Christian burial. They can’t prevent _that_ in this country. And

she’s suffered enough to make a dozen women shoot themselves, or men

either.”

So the dead woman came into the little township, and after the coroner’s

jury had brought in their verdict that the deceased had died by her own

hand, but that there was no evidence to show her state of mind at the

time, poor Kate Trevenna (or Lawless) was buried among more or less

respectable people.

There was a slight difference of opinion as to the identification of the

woman’s corpse, but none whatever as to that of the mare, among the

horse-loving bystanders around the grave, which was several times

visited during the following days. “That’s old Wallaby, safe enough,”

deposed one grizzled stockrider. “Reg’lar mountain mare, skip over them

rocks like a billy-goat; couldn’t throw her down no ways. Ain’t she

dog-poor, too? Kate and she’s had hard times lately. What say, boys,

s’pose we bury her? the ground’s middlin’ soft, and if she don’t ought

to be buried decent, no one does.”

The idea caught on, and a pick and spade contingent driving out next

day, a grave was dug and a stone put up, on which was roughly chiselled—

“WALLABY—died——”

THE END.

RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED,

LONDON AND BUNGAY.

MACMILLAN & CO.’S SIX-SHILLING NOVELS AUTUMN, 1902

CECILIA:

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spell, can afford to miss ‘Marietta.’”

_THE DAILY MAIL._—“The reviewer too rarely comes across so charming a

tale as Mr. F. Marion Crawford’s ‘Marietta: A Maid of Venice.’”

_THE MORNING POST._—“‘Marietta’ is one of the more daintily charming of

Mr. Crawford’s stories, and deserves the recognition it will undoubtedly

receive.”

“ELIZABETH”

“Triumphantly successful.”

—Mr. W. L. COURTNEY.

“Delightful from beginning to end.”

—_The Standard._

Crown 8vo. Gilt Top

Price 6s.

The Benefactress

By the Author of

“Elizabeth and her German Garden”

_THE SPECTATOR._—“If ‘Elizabeth’s’ satire is somewhat cruel, it is in

the main justified by the situation and the results. For the moral of

the story is as sound as the wit is mordant. ‘The Benefactress,’ in a

word, combines the rare qualities of being at once wholesome, agreeably

malicious, and in full accord with the principles of the Charity

Organisation Society.”

Mr. W. L. COURTNEY in the _DAILY TELEGRAPH_.—“It is difficult to

describe by any single epithet the peculiar charm which surrounds the

work of the authoress of ‘Elizabeth and her German Garden.’... Quiet,

tender, incisive, humorous.... Triumphantly successful.”

_LITERATURE._—“Fully equal to ‘Elizabeth and her German Garden.’...

Maintains its interest throughout, and is full of well drawn

characters.”

_STANDARD._—“Delightful from beginning to end. It is wholesome, full of

charm and joyousness.”

_WORLD._—“The writer holds the reader, not to lose her hold while a line

of the book remains to be read and read again. Every character is a

living individuality, and every incident is a necessity.”

_MORNING POST._—“An excellent piece of work.... The most amusing reading

which has come our way for some time.”

_DAILY NEWS._—“One of the most attractive novels we have read for a long

time.”

EGERTON CASTLE

[Illustration: author portrait]

Price 6s.

The Secret Orchard

Egerton Castle

_GLOBE._—“The story, as a whole, is eminently effective, eminently

readable, and can be recommended cordially to all and sundry.”

_WORLD._—“The persons are all well drawn, and the interest is great.”

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._—“A very clever and a very good book.”

_DAILY CHRONICLE._—“We expected much.... ‘The Secret Orchard’ does more

than rise to our expectations.... We follow the rapid development of the

tragedy with a sympathetic interest which never flags.”

_DAILY MAIL._—“A novel of signal distinction and beauty.”

_ACADEMY._—“The style and manner of telling the story is of the easy

luminous character that we associate with the authors of ‘The Bath

Comedy.’”

_MORNING POST._—“There can be no doubt of the dramatic force with which

it is told or of the interest it inspires.”

_THE TIMES._—“A finished piece of work.”

A. C. FARQUHARSON

“The story is absorbing.”

—_The Athenæum._

“Altogether worth reading.”

—_The Westminster Gazette._

Crown 8vo. Gilt Top

Price 6s.

St. Nazarius

A. C. Farquharson

_ATHENÆUM._—“It is a rare pleasure to find a book which is satisfactory

in almost all respects. ‘St. Nazarius’ is such a book. The story is

absorbing; its treatment is admirable, especially in restraint; and the

tone is one of unusual distinction.... The deep thought of the book, its

essential sanity, its presentation of a high religious ideal, interest

us in the work of the author.”

_WESTMINSTER GAZETTE._—“A novel out of the common.... Altogether worth

reading.”

_ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE._—“Should give delight to many readers who do not

as a rule trouble themselves to cut the leaves of ordinary novels. The

writer has dared to probe the depths and to scale the heights.... The

story is clothed in language perfectly suited to its mysterious charm.”

_OUTLOOK._—“Mr. Farquharson has grip, and his story is well worked out.”

_SCOTSMAN._—“A striking story and one in which the reader’s interest and

admiration strengthen, from a somewhat formal opening, to an end which

is unconventionally fine and sad.”

STEPHEN GWYNN

[Illustration: author portrait]

Price 6s.

The Old Knowledge

Stephen Gwynn

_WESTMINSTER GAZETTE._—“It is long since it has been our good fortune to

meet with a novel so fresh, breezy, and altogether charming.”

_SUNDAY SUN._—“A good book, very far above the customary novel of the

day in all important matters. It has charm of manner, a delicate and

indefinable melancholy—the inalienable melancholy of the Irish—and also

a very welcome touch of Irish humour.... It introduces us to several

very charming people.”

_DAILY EXPRESS._—“A very pretty story, wholesome and refreshing, with

the sweet air of Donegal.... The humour, the prettiness, and the trouble

of the story are all perfect in their lightness and harmony. Mr. Gwynn

is among the most graceful and pleasant of Irish writers.”

_THE SPECTATOR._—“It is admirably written: it has an interesting theme,

and its development in plot and characterisation ... is in faithful

correspondence with the facts of life. In a word, the book is both

charming and convincing.”

NANCY H. BANKS

A Kentucky Tale

of the

Last Century.

Crown 8vo. Gilt Top

Price 6s.

Oldfield

A Kentucky Tale of the

Last Century

Nancy Huston Banks

_MORNING POST._—“Has all the charm which we have come to expect from

American stories which describe the lives of simple people in remote

parts of that vast continent.... A book to read and to enjoy.”

_SPECTATOR._—“‘Oldfield’ is a Kentucky ‘Cranford’—with a difference. The

difference is that the setting of outside things in which Miss Banks

puts her human figures is much more vivid than what we find in Mrs.

Gaskell’s story.”

_SCOTSMAN._—“At once picturesque, pathetic, and removed from the

ordinary lines of modern fiction.... The incidents of the romance are

fresh, healthy, and invigorating. The characters are strongly and

clearly defined.... Is bid heartily welcome.”

UNA L. SILBERRAD

[Illustration: author portrait]

Price 6s.

Princess Puck

Una L. Silberrad

_THE PILOT._—“It is unspeakably refreshing to come upon a book so

bubbling over with life and love and character and humour as ‘Princess

Puck’ that to notice it forthwith is an imperative duty and pleasure.

This is a novel to read once so that you may find out how good it is,

and then straightway over again because it is so good that you must

enjoy it more leisurely.”

_THE SPECTATOR._—“Miss Silberrad’s exceedingly clever, fresh, and

wholesome story.... _Bill_ Alardy is a delightful creation: she bubbles

over with life and goodwill, humour, energy, and affection; and

everything she touches turns to romance.”

_THE ACADEMY._—“The whole story is in the aggregate so pleasing and

entertaining that we have little inclination to pick holes. Let it go as

fresh and recommendable.”

_PUNCH._—“... the exceeding charm of the creation of _Wilhelmina

Alardy_, commonly known as _Bill_. In her freshness, her

unconventionality, her keen insight, and her honesty, _Bill_ is

delightful.”

_THE DAILY CHRONICLE._—“Miss Silberrad’s book deserves a high place in

the fiction of the moment. The story is interesting and rattles along to

the end without a pause; there is originality in the construction of the

plot, and perception as well in the way the characters are conceived and

presented. _Bill_ herself is a charming conception.... Altogether,

‘Princess Puck’ is a book to be read, and to be read with

discrimination.”

MERWIN & WEBSTER

“Most remarkable story.”

—_Daily Mail._

“An interesting and amusing book.”

—_Scotsman._

Crown 8vo. Gilt Top

Price 6s.

“Calumet ‘K’”

By S. Merwin and H. K. Webster

“Calumet ‘K’” is a two-million-bushel grain-elevator, and this story

tells how Charlie Bannon built it “against time.” The elevator must be

done by December 31. There are persons that are interested in delaying

the work, and it is these, as well as the “walking delegates,” that

Bannon has to fight. The story of how they tried to “tie up” the lumber

two hundred miles away, and of how he outwitted them and just “carried

it off,” shows the kind of thing that Bannon can do best.

_DAILY MAIL._—“Most remarkable story.... The story makes an epic—the

epic of a sleepless, tireless man who can never be beaten. Every young

man who is to-day starting out on the business of life should read it.”

_SUNDAY SPECIAL._—“No romance of the Middle Ages surpasses this story in

stirring interest, virility, and strength. It is a moving picture of the

resistless American of to-day, and, as such, is worth a hundred average

novels.”

_SCOTSMAN._—“It is an interesting and amusing book, and once taken up

will be read to a finish.”

_SPECTATOR._—“The story will delight readers who combine mechanical

taste with the spirit of practical enterprise.”

EVELYN SHARP

[Illustration: author portrait]

Price 6s.

The Youngest Girl

in the School

By Evelyn Sharp

_THE ATHENÆUM._—“Told with much humour.”

_THE ACADEMY._—“A most amusing story.”

_LITERATURE._—“A vivid picture of a girl’s school.”

_THE PILOT._—“... its raciness and humour.”

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._—“Extremely diverting to the average man.”

_THE GRAPHIC._—“Very fresh and natural.”

_THE SPECTATOR._—“Shows a wholesome and humorous grasp of life.”

_THE DAILY CHRONICLE._—“Miss Evelyn Sharp has scored a brilliant success

in a _genre_ where success has been attained by few. Schoolgirls have

suffered rather more than schoolboys at the hands of writers of fiction.

Miss Sharp possesses an endowment of humour, rich, sensitive, radiant,

that pervades her book like a joyous elemental spirit. And with this

frolic spirit, ever alive to the humorous aspects of life, the subtlest

apprehension is revealed of the psychical depths beneath the exuberant

manifestations of healthy aspiring youth.”

E. F. POYNTER

Author of

“An Exquisite Fool,”

“Every Day’s News,”

etc.

Crown 8vo. Gilt Top

Price 6s.

Michael Ferrier

E. Frances Poynter

=Michael Ferrier= is the story of a young poet who loves and is loved by

a beautiful girl, Helen Umfraville. In a moment of frenzy he kills, half

by accident, the man who attempts to stand between them. The death

passes for either accident or suicide, and no suspicion is aroused; but

the girl sees her lover’s trouble, questions him, and the turning point

of the book is the scene when he confesses to her his act, and she takes

the decision that seems to her right in consequence.

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“There are so many real tragedies in life, and so few

convincing ones in fiction, that the perusal of Miss E. Frances

Poynter’s little study is likely to make a deep impression on the

reader. For here is real tragedy.... In her characterisation the

authoress is most happy.... Miss Poynter possesses keen psychological

insight and a not unkindly satire when she pleases, as well as the power

to depict pathos and suffering, with the pen of the artist.”

_PUNCH._—“Miss Frances Poynter, though not a new novelist, is a fresh

acquaintance of my Baronite’s. If her earlier works are as good as

‘Michael Ferrier,’ they are worth looking up.”

S. WEIR MITCHELL

[Illustration: author portrait]

Price 6s.

Circumstance

Dr. S. Weir Mitchell

“Circumstance” is a study of life in Philadelphia, rather curious as

showing the exclusiveness of American Society. It is also a study of an

adventuress. The point of the title lies in the varying resistance of

character to external events, and the striking influence on inferior

character of accidents, such as that which almost made Mrs. Hunter a

murderess, or that which enabled her to attain her end without resorting

to so disagreeable a step or sacrificing any of her complacency.

_THE PILOT._—“Carried out with admirable effect.”

_THE OUTLOOK._—“Contains an extremely able study of senile decay and one

of the most sagacious portraits of a pretty coquette ... which we have

ever seen.”

_THE STANDARD._—“The book is very clever.”

ROSA N. CAREY

“Well conceived and well sustained.”

—_The World._

“Highly interesting.”

—_Morning Post._

Crown 8vo. Gilt Top

Price 6s.

Herb of Grace

By Rosa N. Carey

_WESTMINSTER GAZETTE._—“A clever delineator of character, possessed of a

reserve of strength in a quiet, easy, flowing style, Miss Carey never

fails to please a large class of readers. ‘Herb of Grace’ is no

exception to the rule....”

_DAILY GRAPHIC._—“An entirely pleasant and wholesome story.”

_GLOBE._—“Told in the writer’s best and most popular manner.”

_MORNING POST._—“Highly interesting.”

_ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE._—“Very pleasant reading, and full of quiet charm.

There is much skilful portrayal of character.”

_WORLD._—“The story is well conceived and well sustained.”

_DAILY CHRONICLE._—“In every respect a worthy successor to ‘Rue with a

Difference.’”

_MANCHESTER GUARDIAN._—“On the picture of the two sisters living so

happily together, Miss Carey has expended some of her most careful and

successful work.”

MAURICE HEWLETT

[Illustration: author portrait]

Price 6s.

Richard Yea-and-Nay

By Maurice Hewlett

Mr. FREDERIC HARRISON in _THE FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW_.—“Such historic

imagination, such glowing colour, such crashing speed, set forth in such

pregnant form carry me away spell-bound.... ‘Richard Yea-and-Nay’ is a

fine and original romance.”

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“The story carries us along as though throughout we

were galloping on strong horses. There is a rush and fervour about it

all which sweeps us off our feet till the end is reached and the tale is

done. It is very clever, very spirited.”

_DAILY NEWS._—“A memorable book, over-long, over-charged with scenes of

violence, yet so informed with the atmosphere of a tumultuous time,

written with a pen so vital and picturesque, that it is the reader’s

loss to skip a page.”

_DAILY CHRONICLE._—“We have to thank Mr. Hewlett for a most beautiful

and fascinating picture of a glorious time.... We know of no other

writer to-day who could have done it.”

MAURICE HEWLETT

Fifty-third Thousand

England and America

Crown 8vo. Gilt Top

Price 6s.

The Forest Lovers

A Romance

_SPECTATOR._—“‘The Forest Lovers’ is no mere literary _tour de force_,

but an uncommonly attractive romance, the charm of which is greatly

enhanced by the author’s excellent style.”

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“Mr. Maurice Hewlett’s ‘The Forest Lovers’ stands out

with conspicuous success.... There are few books of this season which

achieve their aim so simply and whole-heartedly as Mr. Hewlett’s

ingenious and enthralling romance.”

_ACADEMY._—“This is a remarkable book.... ‘The Forest Lovers’ has been a

fresh sensation. Mr. Hewlett can write! What a sense of colour, of

contrast; what vigour, what rapid movement!”

_THE GUARDIAN._—“Quaint and delightful.”

_DAILY CHRONICLE._—“Here is a romance of the glamorous mediæval time,

done just as such a thing should be done.... It is a book to be read.

Not to be read at a sitting, but to be read slowly, when one is in the

mood.”

_ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS._—“It is not easy to describe the charm of Mr.

Hewlett’s romance.... ‘The Forest Lovers’ is a distinct acquisition to

the true literature of romance.”

JAMES LANE ALLEN

[Illustration: author portrait]

Price 6s.

The Increasing

Purpose

=130,000= _copies have been sold in England and America_.

_WESTMINSTER GAZETTE._—“Such a book as this is a rare event, and as

refreshing as it is rare. This book ... is a beautiful one—beautiful

alike in thought, tone, and language.”

_LITERATURE._—“We may safely assert that it will achieve a large

success, and achieve it on its merits.”

_DAILY CHRONICLE._—“We like this book. It stands apart from the ordinary

novel. It tells the story of the growth of a soul.... A great charm of

the book is its pictures of outdoor life on a Kentucky farm.... But the

greatest charm of all, perhaps, is Mr. Allen’s clear-cut, simple, and

vigorous style.”

_SPECTATOR._—“Written with all the delicacy and distinction which have

already won him so many admirers.”

_WORLD._—“Lays upon the reader a grip from which there is no escape.”

_DAILY GRAPHIC._—“The character of David, the first figure in the book,

is finely drawn.... The book is well worth reading.”

_ACADEMY._—“Full of racial warmth and freshest human nature.... Life is

intense, richly coloured, and splendidly aspirant in these pages; yet

the eternal note of sadness is brought in.”

JAMES LANE ALLEN

Fcap. 8vo. Gilt top. =6s.=

223rd Thousand.

The Choir Invisible

_ACADEMY._—“A book to read and a book to keep after reading. Mr. Allen’s

gifts are many—a style pellucid and picturesque, a vivid and disciplined

power of characterisation, and an intimate knowledge of a striking epoch

and an alluring country. ‘The Choir Invisible’ is a fine achievement.”

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._—“Mr. Allen’s power of character drawing invests the

old, old story with renewed and absorbing interest.... The fascination

of the story lies in great part in Mr. Allen’s graceful and vivid

style.”

Globe 8vo. Price =3s. 6d.= each.

A Kentucky Cardinal

Aftermath

Being Part II. of “A Kentucky Cardinal.”

Summer in Arcady

A Tale of Nature

Crown 8vo. Price =6s.= each.

A Kentucky Cardinal and

Aftermath

In one vol. Illus. by HUGH THOMSON.

Flute and Violin

And other Kentucky Tales and

Romances.

The Blue-Grass Region of

Kentucky

And other Kentucky Articles.

_OUTLOOK._—“His work has purity, delicacy, and unfailing charm. He gives

you matter for laughter, matter for tears, and matter to think upon,

with a very fine hand.”

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._—“Mr. Allen has attained to an enviable position; it

is his to interpret his native country to the world, and it is not easy

to imagine a better interpreter. These four volumes are worthy of the

author of ‘The Choir Invisible.’”

WINSTON CHURCHILL

[Illustration: author portrait]

Price 6s.

The Crisis

[290th Thousand]

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“‘The Crisis’ is a story of the American Civil War, a

theme as inspiring to the American writer of genius as the English Civil

War has proved to some of our best romancers. But, so far as we are

aware, there has hitherto been no novel on that subject produced in

America to equal either the ‘Woodstock’ of Sir Walter Scott or

Whyte-Melville’s ‘Holmby House.’ That reproach is at length removed by

Mr. Churchill, and ‘The Crisis’ will bear comparison with either of

these justly famous books.”

_LITERATURE._—“As well executed a novel as we have come across for many

a long day.”

_SPECTATOR._—“An exceedingly spirited, interesting, and right minded

romance of the Civil War.”

_GUARDIAN._—“‘The Crisis’ is a remarkable book.... It is a grand book.”

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._—“A singularly fascinating and, in many respects, an

important and valuable book.”

_DAILY CHRONICLE._—“Well as Mr. Churchill did with some of his

characters in ‘Richard Carvel,’ he has done still better in this story

with some of their descendants.”

_ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE._—“It is a sound book, well put together and well

written.”

_PILOT._—“A worthy pendant to his brilliant romance ‘Richard Carvel.’”

_ATHENÆUM._—“A bright, vividly written book, which holds the reader’s

interest.”

_DAILY NEWS._—“We congratulate Mr. Churchill. ‘The Crisis’ is a warm,

inspiriting book.”

WINSTON CHURCHILL

One of the most striking successes in recent fiction.

Crown 8vo. Gilt top

Price 6s.

Richard Carvel

_GUARDIAN._—“The book is one we can warmly recommend to readers who like

to have their historical memories freshened by fiction.”

_LITERATURE._—“Has a full and stirring plot.... A piece of work

creditable both to his industry and his imagination.”

_THE SPEAKER._—“We have not read a better book for many a day than

‘Richard Carvel.’”

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“Full of good things. The narrative excels in

incidents, interesting, vivid, and picturesque....”

Price 6s.

The Celebrity:

An Episode

[59th Thousand]

_ATHENÆUM._—“Distinctly good reading. It is witty and devoid of offence

to the most sensitive disposition.... Can be recommended to old and

young alike.”

_CHICAGO TRIBUNE._—“An exceptionally pleasing novel.”

_NEW YORK INDEPENDENT._—“Fresh, dashing, and entertaining from beginning

to end.”

ROLF BOLDREWOOD

[Illustration: author portrait]

Price 6s.

In Bad Company

and other Stories

Rolf Boldrewood

A collection of Australian stories and sketches. The longest, which

gives its title to the volume, turns on the wickedness of a

trades-unionist agitator among the shearers and the violent

accompaniments of an Australian strike. Others describe bushrangers,

rough-riding contests, kangaroo shoots, lapsed gentlefolk, and, of

course, a drought.

_THE OUTLOOK._—“Very good reading.”

_DAILY NEWS._—“It is the best work this popular author has done for some

time.”

_DAILY GRAPHIC._—“Both the quantity and quality of the stories are first

rate.”

_DUNDEE ADVERTISER._—“There are many charming pictures in words of

Australia and her people, free from conventional phraseology, to be

found in these pages, and the book forms a fit companion to such capital

volumes as ‘Robbery Under Arms’ and ‘The Miner’s Right,’ which made Mr.

Boldrewood’s name.”

_COURT CIRCULAR._—“A breezy, bracing, healthy book.”

ROLF BOLDREWOOD

_POPULAR EDITION OF THE

NOVELS IN UNIFORM BINDING_

Crown 8vo.

Price 3s. 6d. each

Robbery Under Arms

The Miner’s Right

The Squatter’s Dream

A Sydney-side Saxon

A Colonial Reformer

Nevermore

A Modern Buccaneer

The Sealskin Cloak

Plain Living

The Crooked Stick

My Run Home

Old Melbourne Memories

Romance of Canvas Town

War to the Knife

Babes in the Bush

Globe 8vo. =2s.=

The Sphinx of Eaglehawk

F. MONTGOMERY

[Illustration: author portrait]

Price 6s.

Prejudged

Florence Montgomery

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“An ingenious tale, and pleasing, by reason of the

fresh wholesomeness of the characters and atmosphere—a trait hard to

discover in many contemporary novels.”

_TRUTH._—“The author of ‘Misunderstood’ keeps up her deservedly high

reputation by her very pretty story ‘Prejudged.’”

_LITERARY WORLD._—“The story is simple and charming.”

_MANCHESTER COURIER._—“A study of character which is sincere and

convincing, and a story which from cover to cover is well written.”

_THE SPECTATOR._—“Miss Montgomery’s graceful story.”

_ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE._—“Well told and amusing.”

_SCOTSMAN._—“Worthy of the reputation made by ‘Misunderstood.’”

_THE OUTLOOK._—“She sketches her characters in both prettily and

wittily.”

F. MONTGOMERY

Crown 8vo. Gilt Top. =6s.=

Misunderstood

_Diary of Dr. WILBERFORCE, Bishop of Winchester._—“Read ‘Misunderstood,’

very touching and truthful.”

_VANITY FAIR._—“This volume gives us what of all things is the most rare

to find in contemporary literature—a true picture of child-life.”

Crown 8vo. Gilt Top. =6s.=

Seaforth

_WORLD._—“In the marvellous world of the pathetic conceptions of Dickens

there is nothing more exquisitely touching than the loving,

love-seeking, unloved child, Florence Dombey. We pay Miss Montgomery the

highest compliment within our reach when we say that in ‘Seaforth’ she

frequently suggests comparisons with what is at least one of the

masterpieces of the greatest master of tenderness and humour which

nineteenth-century fiction has known. ‘Seaforth’ is a novel full of

beauty, feeling, and interest.”

Crown 8vo. Gilt Top. =6s.=

Thrown Together

_VANITY FAIR._—“This charming story cannot fail to please.”

_WASHINGTON DAILY CHRONICLE._—“A delightful story. There is a thread of

gold in it upon which are strung many lovely sentiments.”

Crown 8vo. Gilt Top. =6s.=

_Second Edition._

Transformed; or, Three Weeks

in a Lifetime

Pott 8vo. =2s.=

Tony: A Sketch

3 Vols. Crown 8vo. =18s.=

Colonel Norton

RUDYARD KIPLING

_UNIFORM EDITION_

_Extra Crown 8vo._ _Scarlet Cloth_

_Gilt Tops._ =6s.= _each_

60th Thousand

Kim

Illustrated by J. L. KIPLING

33rd Thousand

Stalky & Co.

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._—“If ‘Stalky & Co.’ does not become as classic as

the greatest favourites among Mr. Kipling’s previous volumes of stories,

write us down false prophets. He has never written with more rapturously

swinging zest, or bubbled over with more rollicking fun.”

57th Thousand

The Day’s Work

_MORNING POST._—“The book is so varied, so full of colour and life from

end to end, that few who read the first two or three stories will lay it

down till they have read the last.”

48th Thousand

Plain Tales from the Hills

_SATURDAY REVIEW._—“Mr. Kipling knows and appreciates the English in

India, and is a born story-teller and a man of humour into the

bargain.... It would be hard to find better reading.”

39th Thousand

Life’s Handicap

Being Stories of Mine Own People.

_BLACK AND WHITE._—“‘Life’s Handicap’ contains much of the best work

hitherto accomplished by the author, and, taken as a whole, is a

complete advance upon its predecessors.”

36th Thousand

Many Inventions

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._—“The completest book that Mr. Kipling has yet given

us in workmanship, the weightiest and most humane in breadth of view....

It can only be regarded as a fresh landmark in the progression of his

genius.”

41st Thousand

The Light that Failed

Re-written and considerably enlarged.

_ACADEMY._—“Whatever else be true of Mr. Kipling, it is the first truth

about him that he has power, real intrinsic power.... Mr. Kipling’s work

has innumerable good qualities.”

17th Thousand

Wee Willie Winkie

and other Stories

RUDYARD KIPLING

_UNIFORM EDITION_ =6s.= _each_.

20th Thousand

Soldiers Three

and other Stories

_GLOBE._—“Containing some of the best of his highly vivid work.”

55th Thousand

The Jungle Book

With Illustrations by J. L. KIPLING and W. H. DRAKE.

_PUNCH._—“‘Æsop’s Fables and dear old Brer Fox and Co.,’ observes the

Baron sagely, ‘may have suggested to the fanciful genius of Rudyard

Kipling the delightful idea, carried out in the most fascinating style,

of ‘The Jungle Book.’”

38th Thousand

The Second Jungle Book

With Illustrations by J. LOCKWOOD KIPLING.

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“The appearance of ‘The Second Jungle Book’ is a

literary event of which no one will mistake the importance. Unlike most

sequels, the various stories comprised in the new volume are at least

equal to their predecessors.”

27th Thousand

“Captains Courageous”

A Story of the Grand Banks. Illustrated by I. W. TABER.

_ATHENÆUM._—“Never in English prose has the sea in all its myriad

aspects, with all its sounds and sights and odours, been reproduced with

such subtle skill as in these pages.”

14th Thousand

From Sea to Sea

Letters of Travel. In Two Vols.

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“‘From Sea to Sea’ is delightful reading throughout.

‘Good things’ sparkle in its every page, and inimitable descriptive

matter abounds.... A charming book.”

The Naulahka

A Story of West and East.

RUDYARD KIPLING

AND

WOLCOTT BALESTIER

RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BUNGAY. 20.9.02.

Transcriber’s Notes

Some presumed printer’s errors have been corrected, including

normalizing punctuation. Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation has been

left as printed unless specifically noted below. Further corrections are

listed below.

p. 28 refection -> reflection

p. 98 make’s -> makes

p. 166 its claims -> it claims

p. 370 Jack Clark -> Jack Clarke

p. 393 Fontenay -> Fontenaye